


After the Fact

by The Punnler (kirkmcbooty)



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Existential Angst, Gen, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirkmcbooty/pseuds/The%20Punnler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New 52-verse. Edward Nygma after doing time in Arkham Asylum tries to rejoin society and is met with resistance, like sandpaper against velcro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Needs New Wallpaper

**Author's Note:**

> So I realize that the Zero Year story isn't over yet but it's a Batman comic so it's pretty predictable what will happen. The only question is how characters will react to the resolution. I'm not going to make any specific guesses about what happens to close the story arc. The only one is that Eddie is probably controlling the city from Wayne Tower because let us be real here. He's working with the tech from Wayne Enterprises and all that, so that's probably where he is. 
> 
> I'm writing this off of the prompt Lacanian love, defined as "you want them to want you," from an image that went around tumblr and some roleplay communities of different platonic love concepts. It will be a gradual rise of "notice me senpai" to possibly more between Edward and Batman, predominantly one-sided, and possibly even simply platonic. All I know is there is not enough Bruce/Eddie on here. I may incorporate other Batman characters into this after consulting my Batfan life partner later as well.
> 
> Also I haven't written fanfiction since, hm...2008? Be gentle with me senpais.

It had taken them long enough to look at him, however reluctantly, eyes a mixture of abhorrence and caution, and say that he was sane and free to go from the walls of Arkham Asylum. The words "no longer a danger to society“ didn't pass from their lips, none ready to forget Zero Year and none ready to speak too soon lest it happen again. You had to take pride wherever you could these days—this by no means meaning that he was ashamed of what he'd done, they were such great accomplishments—but it really was quite a treat that those seeds of doubt were there. It meant they acknowledged the power of his intelligence.

It, however, by no means meant that the bodies outside the asylum _valued_ his intelligence. He was reminded of that every morning for the past month, waking up on a too worn mattress in a low-rent apartment that may as well have been free with the host of problems, like how there was almost never hot water and how _very well maintained_ the septic system was. So well. He'd rather go to the convenience store three blocks away than spend the time arguing with management after cleaning up his bathroom for the third time in a week.

He'd offer to fix it himself even, if he didn't already know that his generosity would be wasted on rats with pens hanging over the eviction notice paperwork, waiting for him to do a single thing that would mean they had good cause to get rid of him. 

Honestly it was aggravating, to the point he’d have fistfuls of his own hair, the sting of pulling the reminder to stop and breathe through this frustration. His resume was a double-edged sword of impressiveness and big bold letters screaming FORMER CRIMINAL, DO NOT HIRE. Surrounding him in his little apartment, sitting at a craigslisted desk looking at classifieds, was the stifling boredom of a challenge that was not so much reliant on solving (or cheating) puzzles as it was relinquishing one’s power to the people who would forever distrust him for his crimes. And even attempting to resign and work under people who would benefit from him leading them instead, no one so far had the desire to take a chance with him. 

Which, being fair, was their own mistake. Their lack of vision meant a.) they didn’t deserve a mind like his anyway, and b.) they didn’t realize what having him as an associate and employee would have done for their business. 

There’s only so long before you grow tired of the taste of cheap plastic between your teeth though, and he tossed his pen onto the newspapers all over his desk. Edward kicked up from out of his chair and headed to his door. Slipping on his shoes and a jacket, he left the smell of musky wallpaper and dust for fresh air on the thought of one person who wouldn’t undervalue him. 

The trick, however, was getting his attention—without causing any trouble. One misstep and he was back in a closet with a cot and a glass door. He knew Wayne Enterprises well enough but that didn’t mean slipping inside was a good idea. However, nearby rooftops with fire escapes and someone with a shirt a certain shade of green, maybe he’d notice. Not like he could walk into the GCPD and say, “Hey, could I borrow the Bat Signal for a minute? I’m looking for a one-on-one with someone who resembles the same level of intelligence as myself.” Some offense. 

If he didn’t show, it was no skin off his back, and he had an idea for an invitation in the future. 

Sure enough, simply wandering close to a big name in the city riddled with crime didn’t mean it would get Mr. Halloween to notice you. He’d played with execution and then wording for how to send a discreet message, especially since he didn’t quite have the luxury of his own computer yet. Thankfully the library was not allowed to deny him a library card, something he’d invested in the day he was released. It was perhaps his singular solace, and yet still unsatisfying in that he’d already been through about half of what the county’s selection had to offer before his time as a super criminal. The other half he at least wanted to pace himself for. 

Today’s task wasn’t about books though, so much as it was the computers, sad as they were for complicated things, but passable for the simple ones, like Internet browsing on YouTube at its most strenuous. His target must have had one of those computers that flagged up anything “suspicious” on local websites, so it was worth a try that the Gotham craigslist page would be under that blanket. 

Post classified, missed connections…

>   
Blah blah, additional information, blah e-mail verification, blah blah. Done. The obligatory waiting game had begun. He remained logged on for the remaining 25 minutes of his computer session, looking over the job classifieds on craigslist. Most listings were a bore or he was overqualified to the point that while he would take anything for now, they would just reject him anyway. He e-mailed his resume to two potential listings, which of course meant he’d now have to stop in and check his e-mail each day for the next couple of weeks to be safe. It would get him out of his apartment at least, even if it meant forcibly ignoring the hushed gossip from those who recognized him.

Occasionally he wondered why he was still trying to play the good citizen, especially since no one saw him as such. Edward didn’t see this as any reason to hide behind hoods and keep his chin down though; people recognized him and knew what he was capable of, and accusations of being a monster were as close as he would maybe ever get to compliments. 

He didn’t hold the cards anymore, and for once, instead of taking them by force, he maybe wished someone would hand him the deck and say, “Show me what you can do.” 

But knowing Gotham, that was too much to look for in the people here. 

If he hadn’t broken into Wayne Enterprises on more than one occasion, maybe he could have applied to work there. Computer security or something. Perhaps he should zero in on other businesses that would benefit from that, and look in their direction. Even starting his own business post-initial shit job to pay bills before debts are over his head would be preferable to his current situation. 

Edward was sitting on a bench in the space front of Wayne Tower, tasking himself with a Marusenko Sphere while he waited. He was there perhaps until 1:00 a.m. before getting up and heading to his place. Not home, just his current place. There were twelve days left until the new moon. A reasonable window of time for the detective to notice his listing, and if he didn’t? He’d find places to leave notes. 


	2. Fix The Plumbing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Up and down and up again.

“Mr. Nygma, your rent is due.” The knocks preceding the statement were not quite a raucous banging but above the level of a regular knock, urgent, like “ _You’d better be listening, you lowlife_.”

The weight of his hand and the indent he bore into his crossword carried the weight of how much he did not want to do this dance right now. Of course, any trouble, and he was out, so he set down his pen, calmly, taking a breath as he stood. In. Out. In. Out. He opened the door, putting on his best attempt at giving a damn. 

“I believe there’s a misunderstanding. I paid this month’s rent a few days ago. I was very sure to be on time, Mrs. Thompson,” he said, sure to speak clearly, and gently. No hard edges, as much as he wanted to be a little sharp right now. The look she gave him made it pretty clear she wasn’t buying the nice guy act, nor did she care really. It was about her money, and that was it.

“There’s your misunderstanding. Your lease is by the week, not the month,” she said through her patronizing smile and quirked brow. He returned the smile, equally patronizing.

“I know. It’s called paying in advance, correct?” Her brow twitched but otherwise she said nothing, perhaps not expecting something so proactive as advanced payments from a former criminal, perhaps fishing for trouble. He had no intention of giving her the satisfaction.

“Have a nice day, Mrs. Thompson!” He continued to smile and then closed the door in her face, slipping the chain into the door in the event she tried to open the door and have the last word.

 

He was still coming up dry on the employment front but it wasn’t against his parole to trade stocks, so that was his main income until he had something stable. It paid rent for now, since he didn’t have the time to cash in lucrative long-term investments yet. Four days until the new moon and still no knights speaking to him from the darkness.

Edward had continued each night, sitting on the same bench with his Marusenko Sphere, waiting to see if anyone would show. Tonight was no different and it was fairly uneventful until the outdoor security guard approached him. 

“Been coming around here pretty regularly. Same time, same spot. You up to something…” The guard looked him over before finishing, “ _Nygma?_ ” The tone was emphasized intentionally, as if he needed to underline his scrutiny to Edward. He looked up from his task.

“Up to nothing. Just waiting to meet someone…” He looked over the guard in return, noting the nametag. “ _Allen._ ” His tone and grin issued as much of a challenge as he could without starting any trouble. Of course, instead of deterring the guy to go back to his work, he raised his eyebrows and laughed a little at him, which Eddie scrunched his nose involuntarily at.

“Looks like your _friend_ isn’t showing up, pal!” He leaned over so they were eye level, continuing, “So why don’t you stop hanging around here?” 

The implication was clear: A guy like you doesn’t have any friends. It took everything he had to keep planted on the bench, his hands pressed tightly around the sphere there. If it had been fragile, it might have even broken.

“My business has nothing to do with your own, so perhaps you could leave me to my devices,” Edward said through his teeth as calmly as he could. He wanted to threaten all sorts of things—how he could ruin this man’s life—but it would put him back into a place he had had enough of, enough for a lifetime.

Allen the Expletive straightened, smug grin plastered on his face. “Keep going nowhere, Nygma. Maybe you’ll get lucky and people will forget about you.” With that, he walked off to continue his patrol of Wayne Towers, and Edward ground his teeth, exercising every ounce of restraint to keep himself from tackling the guard to the ground and at least attempting to beat the crap out of someone larger than himself.

One rolled around again and he crawled back to his sad little hole. Locked door, chain, deadbolt. He stripped down for bed and threw himself into the squeaking mess of cheap blankets and a half-deflated down pillow. Facedown, still, trying to clear the words from his head. Instead, things lingered and vibrated against his skull. He pushed himself up onto his knees, grabbing his pillow and hitting the bed as if someone was pinned under him. 

“ _Nowhere??!_ ” Half-growl half-scream plus his voice cracking, he shoved the pillow into his face and screamed before curling up on his side, half-heartedly pulling one of his blankets over himself.

From the rooftop across the way, eyes watched his tantrum discreetly, leaving moments afterward.

 

When consciousness struck him, he wasn’t sure if morning had come too soon or too late. It was almost noon, and he woke himself fully with the whistling of a kettle for his instant coffee. Dollar store cereal with barely enough milk satisfied his physical needs for the time, and after finishing his coffee, he gathered his dirty laundry—small piles on the floor separated his colors (in first) and whites (on top, with enough room to tuck in his bottle of detergent)—into a satchel. Pants, shirt, shoes, jacket, and he was out the door.

Laundromats: Gossip havens, especially since there were regulars. People still whispered whenever he came in even though you would think enough time had passed. Maybe two more weeks and it would be stale talk. Or they were counting the times he showed up before he’d go off and end up institutionalized again. Crosswords passed his time, and thankfully no one approached him. 

If he weren’t on parole, he might have already considered leaving this place. The notoriety only meant so much when you were no longer a practitioner of crime. 

He left the satchel of clean laundry in his apartment. Put it away later. Edward went to the library to look at job listings and check his e-mail. Snore. Snore. Resume sent. Snore. Rejection. Spam. Penis enlargement. Spam. Spam. E-mail about setting up a job interview? 

E…mail.. about setting up a job interview!

He replied to the e-mail with a date and time in the window offered in the initial response and waited. 3 minutes left of his login window, he received a confirmation of the interview time, as well as reiterating the address of the business and name of who to speak to. He pulled out a notepad and wrote down the information. This was a chance and he wasn’t going to risk forgetting something in the heat of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe in short chapters, in case that wasn't evident. Blame it on my ADD baby. /sail


	3. Repair Water Heater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of instant coffee.

Goodwill: a wealth of connotations in relation to shopping there, each a fairly clear indicator of one’s personality. It wasn’t his first choice, but after going over his finances, it was his best option to look presentable and professional. Khakis were not his first style choice, but, based on the business he had his interview with, black slacks would read too formal. Or that’s what he’d gathered the impression would be, after (sigh) resigning to the ideas of “professionals” and their resume and interview tips. 

In his situation, he had to accept things as they were and trust certain opinions, even if they told you to dress to blend into a particularly dated image of a man with a stable job. Nothing as loud as successful, just stable, the visual trope of middle class man supporting a wife and two kids.

The ringing sound of hangers sliding on their metal racks was the song in his ears for some time. He’d become lost in it, bored that this was what his life was now, no attention paid to the time as he moved through the selection of button-downs. His natural inclination was to go towards the ones green in hue, but as much as he loved the color it held on too closely to an image of him that was immediately negative. White was too… white, and light blue was so average, but average was what he had to trust right now so he ended up with one in his size and went to check out. Tie or no tie was a fleeting quandary, and after a quick pass over the selection of donated and mostly dated ties he settled for _no, absolutely not_. One shirt and pair of khakis, paid for, bagged, and he left.

 

It was as he sat and let out the hems of the now “his” khakis (the fit was good everywhere but the inseam) that it truly sank in how domestic his life had become (sans all the “American Dream” bits). This isn’t what he’d wanted, even before this. He’d been reduced to one of those sad, desperate zombies jumping between temporary sources of income. He should be somewhere better than this, having his pants tailored by a professional, and instead he was doing the job himself on pants bought half off at a thrift store.

It’s not as if his choices had been the morally worst choices out there either. He just happened to accept they were his, taking pride in his accomplishments instead of hiding behind miles of red tape or private sector businesses that were involved in so many things that most people overlooked anything truly suspicious. His intentions, he still thought, were good, even if his approach was unconventional. The world really does need to get smarter, and he is reminded of it every morning, looking at the water-stained ceiling, a reminder of his failure.

He didn’t want to be a failure. _He had worked so hard to become somebody, he refused to be—_ ”Ow!” The words that followed merely devolved into a string of frustrated murmurings, checking his finger to see if the needle had pierced enough to draw blood. Fine, just stings. He took in a deep breath. Relax. The sooner he was done with this, the sooner it could be out of his mind. 

 

Tonight was the last night on that invitation. Being honest, his hopes were pretty low, and in retrospect, it screamed begging for attention. That wasn’t exactly below him considering that plenty of times early in his career people wrote him off, but this late in the game it was just sad. Sad was the summation of his life now, and it infuriated him. He even considered not going, just finding something better to do with his time. Like test out a bank’s security measures, a fleeting thought offered. He couldn’t entertain thoughts like that anymore though. 

He put on a pot of water, pulling out a mug and the jar of instant coffee. Maybe he’d design some puzzles. He wondered if that would be marketable, a puzzle book designed by someone infamous for them. It was perhaps his best tame idea so far, so while the water boiled, he pulled out a mostly empty no-line notebook and a pencil. Edward Nygma, you may yet turn around this horrible excuse for a day.

 

“Giving up?” Edward was sitting at his desk, focused so intensely on his task he hadn’t noticed anyone slip inside. Of course, certain people now in the room were notorious for being silent and unseen, etc. and so on, blah blah god’s gift to Gotham or something. Though at this point he hadn’t actually expected, if he had his guest’s attention, for him to actually drop by, literally. 

He’d thought first he’d play it cool, turn around and smile and say, “Oh, no, this was all according to my plan,” and spout off how he predicted he’d show up; but then he realized what the implications would be if someone had seen him come into his apartment, particularly the management, or someone inclined to tell the management, and proceeded to panic. He jumped up from his desk and dropped the blinds on the windows of his little studio apartment. 

“No one saw you come in here, right?” With how distressed he sounded, one could think he actually was doing something suspicious. 

If looks could say “ _I’m the goddamn Batman_ ,” that is exactly what the expression meeting his eyes would say. Of course, that didn’t exactly comfort him, and he grabbed the nearest thing to him (a shirt, not threatening at all), throwing it at him. He knew better than to engage within arms length, but then he also had a grappling hook, batarangs… Really not good to engage at any distance, particularly within the same room, and usually he was much smarter about this kind of thing, but stress, adrenaline, things happen.

“Tell me! No one saw you!” he hissed, trying to keep his voice low so no one would hear and report him.

“No one,” he answered, swatting the shirt away without batting an eye. It took a moment, eyes stuck on him, taking deep breaths to calm himself, to come down and convince himself that if anyone asked, he could assure them that the Dark Knight was keeping an eye out for their safety and guarantee that he wasn’t up to anything criminal. Not that they would take his guarantee but perhaps it would get them to roll their eyes and walk away. 

“Why did you ask to meet me?” 

Edward looked over him, searching for some sign of expression, but it was the blank —save some aggression—tone he always had. He moved away from the window to the kitchenette to make himself another cup of coffee. 

“I told you already, no one listens to me. No one takes me seriously.” He pulled down another mug, making a gesture to ask if his guest would like any. Declined. He put the mug away. 

“Get a therapist.” Wow, what a genius. 

“I already have one at the will of my probation officer. I have yet to gain anything of value from my mandatory twice a weeks. What I mean is…” You see me differently from everyone else, right? Or rather, you see me in a different way than the way the rest of Gotham does? I want someone to really acknowledge me? He wasn’t sure what he actually wanted to say. All of it sounded too personal though. 

“What I mean is it would be nice to talk with someone even the slightest bit close to being on my level.” He’d settle with that. He kept himself to busy work, preparing the kettle, the water, the mug, the coffee, all the little details so he wouldn’t be focusing so hard on the void of information that was his guest, who was probably reading into his behavior just as much as Edward was doing the same, however indirectly.

“I don’t have time to play games with you,” was the response he got. 

“Then why did you drop in?” No response, probably a change of subject would follow, if he didn’t decide to slip out while his back was turned. At least he could be satisfied with that, Batman actually taking the time out of his busy schedule for a little exchange with him. 

“I have a question for you, about Bruce Wayne.” Pulling up an undercurrent thought to the surface.

“What about him?” Edward stopped and wondered if Batman was always so short of words. Were his thoughts short? Did his thoughts make up for his short sentences by being an overabundance of words?

“Now, I know I don’t have the best reputation when it comes to Wayne Enterprises, but consider this: While not necessarily providing a direct service to expose faults in security, programming, and so on, I have somewhat indirectly shown where the cracks that needed to be fixed were. Is this perhaps something I could use to ask for a professional reference?” He waited a moment before realizing his question could be taken in a couple different ways. “--And I don’t mean blackmail him to be a reference by that, I mean the ability to expose faults, problem solving, and the like as skills, which can be then used to consider options to improve many different systems that businesses use to protect their offices, their workers, as well as their products, projects, and so on.”

He looked up from his busywork to his guest, and he swore it was like looking at a bat-shaped wall sometimes. A horribly muscular, human tank wall armored and armed to the teeth to take down any thug, brute, criminal, or other fool who dared take him on in the blink of an eye. Once again, he took this time to mentally reassert _”Do not physically engage Batman. Never do that.”_

“You’d have to ask him that.”

“Ha, ha. As if that would ever happen. The statistical likelihood of winding up ten feet away from him, let alone in a capacity where I can ask questions regarding his professional opinion of someone like me is not in my favor.” 

Edward wasn’t sure if he saw movement in the corners of his guest’s mouth, but he wasn’t going to get kicked out of his apartment or thrown back in Arkham for getting mad that Batman laughed at him internally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love fourth-wall jokes.


	4. Refloor The Bathroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More psychology than your body has room for!!!

His job interview came and went. It had been for a temporary position, with a possibility of becoming a regular position, but he wouldn’t get his hopes too high. Plenty of temp hires were let go immediately after the time they were needed, and he would rather see it coming than tear himself down over a predicted loss. He didn’t even have a guarantee that he would be hired, but he’d made sure to emphasize that his only form of contact was e-mail for now. He didn’t mention to the interviewer (that would just make him look even more pathetic) that it was mostly the startup cost of buying a phone that he couldn’t afford at the moment, not enough the cheapest of prepaids. 

He wasn’t sure if he should abhor or thank the illusion khakis gave, but most people didn’t even realize he was formerly notorious and still possibly dangerous. His ego said abhor, his attempt at morality said thank. Conclusions would happen later. 

 

If he had to put into words his feelings about the visit he had the other night, the shortest phrase might be… It was nice. Sure, the beginning was a little shaky but by the time his guest had left, he’d felt—relaxed? No, peaceful was probably the more appropriate word. While he couldn’t tell what sort of judgments or other such thoughts were going on behind the cowl, it was a relieving change from what Edward was met with day after day since his release.

Not thoughts he would mention to his twice a week, a hawk of a woman with curves in all the right places if he were inclined to think that way, who he felt was staring him down more than usual. 

“Something on your mind?” he asked, grinning somewhat at the obvious irony of his question. The unexpressed “ha- ha-“ was clear in the way she pursed her lips together before replying.

“You’re different from last week. Anything I should know about?” An eyebrow raised, further accentuating that her brow game was so strong she could probably stab someone with them in some cartoon universe. He visualized that for a moment. Just peeling her eyebrows off of her face, and then slapping them back on when she was done. Dangerous.

“A friend visited me the other night,” he said simply, coming back to her question. He wouldn’t say who, it was a fact he wanted to savor privately.

“You have friends, Edward?” Was that really so hard to believe? Well, he supposed, for everyone else, it was.

“I suppose if everyone questions it enough, I’ll have to believe I don’t, right?” His reply was somewhat catty, and intentionally meant to make her regret the implications of what she’d said. She was certainly uncomfortable now and cleared her throat, crossing her legs and trying to re-situate herself into a more comfortable position, physically, but mostly psychologically.

“What did you and your friend do then?” she asked, and he wondered if the internal dialogue following was something like _”Please don’t say you robbed a bank,”_ or something else crime-related.

“We talked. Just simple conversation like you and I are having. I had some coffee. He didn’t, I imagine he’d already had a cup on the way.” To be honest, he wasn’t sure what Batman’s coffee drinking habits were, but if anything caffeine pills would be more convenient, if the hero took any stimulants at all.

“Oh? Just talked? What about?” Ooo, look, she must be taking notes for the record. He wondered if she would have to report his affiliating with someone to his probation officer. He wondered, if so, would his probation officer heckle him for the identity of who it was? Patient-Doctor confidentiality was tricky business with cases like his. 

“I asked if he had advice on the employment front. It’s hard finding work when you’re someone like me.” He accompanied his words with his best “pity me” smile, to which she just pursed her lips again. Red lipstick was an interesting choice of color for someone assigned to criminal clients. Why a color known to make a man’s blood boil? He wondered what sort of psychology she used on the other patients she saw, or if it was simply an esthetic choice she enjoyed. So many questions, only one hour of time.

“Yes, I understand why it would be.” She left an empty space in the air, knowing he’d know what her question was, and he knew this.

“Would you like to know what he told me?” Purposefully drawing it out.

“It’s your hour, Edward.” He loved how she used his first name to make the experience more personal, instead of using his surname, which would make the conversation more detached and alienated from one another. It was entertaining—also a relief from the usual tone of resentment—but mostly entertaining.

“Well, alright, then why don’t I paint the picture for you then?” She locked eyes with him and nodded. 

“Alright, if that’s what you’d like to do.” Yes, Edward. Whatever you want, Edward. I’m here for you, Edward. Words and concepts he half-wished he’d heard _years_ ago. Perhaps certain things might have never happened and he’d be in a better place for it. He took in a breath. 

“So, my friend, who I’ve known for a very long time, but fell out of contact with when I was admitted. I happened to reconnect with him recently, and he stopped by my place—only for a minute, he was on a schedule—to say hello, sort of check up on how I was doing.” As he got into his retelling, he picked his hands up from where they’d rested in his lap, fingers knitted together, and started to gesticulate along with his words.

“As I had mentioned, I made myself some coffee. I offered him a cup, but he declined, again, as I had mentioned. So we started talking a little, you know, standard small talk—‘How are things?’ Could be better…--and so on, and then I asked him, ‘If you were a head of a company or something, affiliated with a business that I had caused trouble for before, do you think that the fact that I had caused trouble before would be a…’ Oh, what’s the best way to paraphrase this…?” He stopped a moment, cycling through different words and formations of phrases in his head, eyes upward.

“’Do you think that previously displayed skill could (and would) be backed by the person as a professional reference?’ There we go, that should make sense. Anyway, so I ask that, and he looks at me, pretty much unreadable and just tells me,” he pauses. 

“He tells me, ‘You should ask them that.’ Funny, right? I mean, conceptually, not _bad_ advice, but the chance of me having a one on one with someone whose business I infiltrated personally?” He laughed, and she just sort of squinted at him, like she wasn’t sure what to think or how to feel. 

“They’d probably look at me the same way you are now!” He continued laughing. Sometimes, it was worth all the _”Tell me how you feel”_ s for looks like that.

 

Edward looked over some of the puzzles he’d made up for that puzzle book idea. It was a start, but they needed a field test, and he wondered if he could not only get opinions, but also something out of it. He had made up some copies so he wouldn’t lose the original papers due to things like the hands of frustrated alpha testers or anything like that. A particularly good idea came to mind and he wondered if she would be game.

Knock knock. “Mrs. Thompson! Do you have a moment?” Some shuffling sounds and the office door opened. 

“What do you _want_ , Mr. Nygma?” she asked, as if he was interrupting something _terribly important_. He smiled at her, his thumb flipping through an edge of the papers he was holding.

“Well, as you know, I have something of an interest in puzzles—“ Glazed eyes looked at him, “—and I was playing with the idea of making my own puzzle book. But I am faced with a problem: I know all the answers so I have a hard time determining the difficulty levels sometimes, and I was wondering if you would test them out and give me your honest opinion. “

“I have better things to do with my time,” she said, starting to close the door. He stopped her with one hand, perhaps a little more zealously than he intended, having to stabilize her footing. 

“Wait! I can up the ante if it would make you more interested!” he offered, perhaps a little hopeful that she would buy into it.

“How?” His landlord was incredulous, and he figured it was with good reason so he would shrug it off this time.

“If you solve all of them by the end of the week and tell me what you think, I will fulfill one request of your choosing—except moving out.” Really need to cover his bases. Knowing her attitude, it wouldn’t be improbable for her to tell him to leave.

“And if I don’t?” He considered what would be fair.

“One future credit towards a week’s rent, should I need it,” was his answer. He could have asked for more, could have asked for something more appalling even, but he considered what would truly benefit him at this moment and went with that. As for Mrs. Thompson, she squinted at him, a long, cold, considering stare. 

“Fine.” She would probably ask him to do repairs on the building for free or something like that, to save her the cost of hiring laborers to help. “Hand over the puzzles.” He happily did so, thanked her, and returned upstairs to put the original papers away, and pull out fresh papers to plan out some new ones.

The kettle was on, and he spooned the last bits of instant coffee into a cup. He’d have to tack that onto his shopping list later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact (?): My personal headcanon is that Edward has ADHD, because he notices so many things that people wouldn't really pay attention to, hence also why there are the deviations in his train of thought sometimes. Plus, stream of consciousness.
> 
> Also the more I work on this, the more comfortable I become with dialogue. Hooray!


	5. Insulate the Windows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Job Offer: Success rate 100%!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this note is here, the chapter hasn't been beta'd yet, but should be fine for reading.

Nothing quite unifies a group of people like generalized hatred or dislike for a person, idea, or concept. Most politics had even seemed to hinge on that idea in recent years. _“Do you hate (blank)? So do we!”_

So with that in mind, he wasn’t sure if he should feel proud for bringing the small community of his fellow tenants together and closer to the building manager, or afraid, or just angry, but possibly more afraid because he had no idea what sort of ideas they could be cooking up against him should they solve his preliminary puzzles.

There were all sorts of terrible or even dangerous things they could request of him, but the one thought he considered to be the least desirable was the thought that they could ask him to do their laundry for an indeterminable amount of time, possibly even out of his own pocket. If they had any clue, it would be a surefire way to get him out of the building in less than a week, looking for somewhere else to be. 

Laundry was awful. So boring. And Laundromats were awful and very boring as well.   
Speaking of, his dryer load was finally finished. He pulled things out, folding them as he went and tucked them into his laundry bag. Once it was all tucked away, he threw the strap of the bag over his shoulder and headed back out.

He would have waited a few more days to run this errand but it just so happened he had received an email about a second interview for the following day, and so he threw his laundry in a bag as soon as he returned from the library and ran out to wash his things.

Amongst them, _the khakis_. Ugh.

 

“Alright, Edward, I’m just going to go over a couple of questions that were already covered by my assistant who interviewed you. What made you interested in our company?”

_I need a job as soon as possible._

“Well, your field of business is one I have experience in, so I can see myself doing well here. You’re still a new company and I saw an opportunity to bring my experience with much bigger companies—Wayne Enterprises, for example—to you. As you know, with my reputation, most larger scale businesses will be cautious about letting me in, and that’s their mistake. I can help your company grow into something much greater. This chance would allow my image to be redeemed in the business world, and it would open doors for you.”

_Hold eye contact. Assure them that you are a good option._ They nod, taking notes.

“Of course, you are aware that hiring you is a risk for the image of our company as well. How would your experience counter a potential negative image that our partners would see?”

_They are idiots and so are you if you are concerned with me being a risk to your company._

“The best way I could put this into perspective is probably this: I was released from Arkham Asylum with nothing to my name except for a couple changes of clothes and what of my possessions that hadn’t been tucked into evidence or auctioned off during my time there. I took what I had left, turned it into money, and multiplied that through cleverly paying attention to stocks so that I have enough savings tucked away to eat and pay bills for the next six months. It’s minimal living, but I’m surviving.”

_Also, in case you don’t remember, I took over the whole city with just intellect and clever manipulation._

“—If you and your business partners open your ears, I can promise you will like what I have to say. Good things will come to your company, and the negative image should fall away.”

_Will. Should have said “will fall away.”_ They look up and back down to their paper, taking notes again.

Eyes back up on him. They’re smiling, maybe that’s good. Usually that’s good.

“And you understand that this position will be a temporary position where you will be scrutinized for your behavior? If your actions seem suspicious in any way, we have every right to terminate you without notice.”

“I understand. Without notice seems rather one-sided though. Communication is important for a business and it’s associates, correct?” Smile, be charming. 

That gets a small laugh. Thank goodness, humor is a good thing, right?

“Correct.”

“So termination _with_ notice, then?” He keeps smiling, quirking up an eyebrow at them.

Another laugh, less small this time. 

“I’ll consider it.”

That sounds positive.

“Alright, I’m going to go and speak with some of my associates for a moment and review what we have. You wait here and I’ll be back to let you know what our decision is.”

Edward nods. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.” Keep the charm going. They leave, and he waits, leaning back in the chair he’s seated in. He looks around at things, like the books on the shelves, certificates and diplomas lining the walls, notable newspaper clippings mentioning the company, no matter how small, the list goes on. He waits for what must have been almost 15, 20 minutes before the head of whichever department he was being interviewed for returned, sitting back behind their desk. They squared the small stack of interview papers in front of them, before locking eyes with Edward and extending out a hand. 

“On behalf of (generic company name), I’d like to offer the position of (generic business job title) to you.”

_Contain yourself. Shake the hand._

Edward reaches over the desk, leaning forward, and shakes the hand. 

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Richardson. I promise that this is a good decision for you and your company,” he says, not an ounce of lingering threat there, and desperately trying not to sound overly excited. 

They finished going over paperwork, like the mandatory drug testing appointment, policies he’d need to know before coming in, and the date he would come in to begin his employment.

Finally, people were starting to recognize his potential.

 

Edward had no idea if a certain cowled person of the night was still flying by to see if he was up to no good or not. In the event that he was, after he returned home—after shouting it on the first floor loud enough for the building manager to hear, which resulted in her opening her door and shouting back at him, to which he winked at her and darted off up the stairs to his apartment— he wrote a note and taped it facing out of his window.

_I got a job._

Batman, and all those people working at Arkham, as well as everyone else in Gotham who believed that he’d never integrate back into society could all “suck it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long to get around to this! I actually went from being unemployed and on the prowl for work to landing a job myself. I've even completed my training and have become a certified barista (pin and all) under a licensed Starbucks kiosk. Very exciting. 
> 
> I've had ideas for how to progress the story but I didn't really find time to sit down and get them going in words until just now. Expect an eventual identity crisis in the future. Things are too domestic and it's going to catch up to Eddie eventually.


End file.
